


Thrill of the Chase (Part Nine of "Peeping Through the Closet Door")

by OpenPage



Series: Peeping Through the Closet Door [9]
Category: 21 Jump Street (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 10:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13855827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenPage/pseuds/OpenPage
Summary: Can Booker successfullywooTom?





	1. The Art of Seduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ute/gifts).



> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/26716387558/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> **Disclaimer: I do not own 21 Jump Street or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.**
> 
> **No copyright infringement is intended.**
> 
> **Based on the TV series 21 Jump Street.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/38778088050/in/dateposted-public/)

Having spent a week at home recuperating, Tom was more than ready to get back to work. Although not fit enough to return to active duty, in his mind, paperwork was preferable to the boredom of daytime television. Soap operas were not to his intellectual taste, and so he’d spent his time lying on the sofa reading. But after finishing Tom Clancy’s _‘Clear and Present Danger’_ and John Grisham’s _‘A Time to Kill’_ in record time, boredom had set in. He was so desperate for something to do, he’d even considered taking up knitting to pass the time, and horrified he’d even contemplated such an activity, he’d launched a crusade to get himself back in the saddle, so to speak. At first, Fuller was reluctant, citing pressure from the commissioner to enforce a duty of care when dealing with injured officers. But after hounding his superior for a solid three days, Tom’s persistence—along with a little help from Penhall—had finally paid off. Worn down by the constant pestering, Fuller eventually gave him permission to return to work, but on the strict proviso he observed his doctor’s advice and didn’t overdo it. It was a relief for the young officer to have a reason to get up in the morning, but he also had an ulterior motive for returning to the chapel before his ribs had fully healed. During his convalescence, he’d barely heard from Booker, and he was starting to wonder if his plan to forgo sex in preference of a more platonic relationship had backfired. Too much time on one’s hands was a recipe for overthinking, and Tom was the king of overthinking. However, despite his propensity for careful deliberation of the facts while looking at each situation from all angles, for some inexplicable reason, when it came to Booker, he failed to see the obvious. Even though the dark-haired officer had informed him he was working around the clock on a case, it didn’t register as a reason for his lack of communication. Whether it was the constant pain radiating from his fractured ribs or the long days spent on his own, Tom felt moody, headachy, and generally out of sorts. Not to mention ignored. He’d expected his lover to shower him with attention, and all he’d received was the occasional rushed phone call and the vague promise of a visit. Life dating Booker wasn’t turning out quite as he’d expected, and he was man enough to admit the rejection hurt. However, as he was the one who had insisted on curtailing their amorous play, he had no one to blame but himself. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he was too proud and too stubborn to admit he might be wrong, and so he suffered the consequences while silently lamenting the stupidity of his actions.

**

Excited at the prospect of returning to work, Tom rose early, his mind primed and ready to face the day. The dull throb in his side slowed him to a frustrating pace, but he’d allowed himself plenty of time to fix himself breakfast, shower, dress, and call for a cab. Not having his Mustang was more than an annoying inconvenience, losing his beloved car had left an indelible ache in his heart, and he knew he would live with the regret forever. If he’d just paid attention to the road instead of worrying about Booker, his prize possession wouldn’t be sitting in some junkyard waiting to be crushed into a metal cube the size of a hay bale. It was a depressing thought and one he tried not to dwell on. As his grandmother always said, _“Yesterday is history, tomorrow's a mystery, and today is a gift of God, which is why we call it the present.”_ And while he no longer believed in a higher power, he’d always found some measure of comfort in the words. He couldn’t change the past, but the present was his for the taking. Life was short, and while determined to stick to his guns when it came to his no sex policy, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do everything in his power to prove to Booker once and for all that he wanted him in his life.

After taking an agonizing five minutes to tie his bootlaces, Tom rose to his feet and walked over to the phone. Lifting the receiver, he started to dial the number of the local cab company when a knock at his door caught his attention. Annoyed at the interruption, he slammed the handset down on the cradle and hobbling over to the door, he yanked it open. “What?”

A middle-aged man dressed in a chauffeur's uniform tipped his cap. “Good morning, sir, your limousine is waiting downstairs.”

Tom stared at the man, his expression blank. “My _what?”_

“Limousine, sir,” the man repeated. “I was hired to drive you to and from work for as long as you require my services.”

“Oh, uh… _What?”_

The driver smiled politely. “I’m your personal chauffeur, sir.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop, and when it did, a look of understanding passed over Tom’s face. “Did Booker hire you?”

“That’s not for me to say, sir,” the driver replied, his deadpan expression giving nothing away. “Are you ready to leave or would you like me to wait downstairs?”

Feeling as though he were in a dream, Tom gave a quick glance over his shoulder before grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. “I’m ready, let’s go.”

“As you wish,” the chauffeur murmured, and taking a step back, he waited for Tom to lock the apartment before following him down the stairs. Once outside, he hurried forward and opened the door of the black Cadillac Brougham Limousine parked on the street.

“Um, thanks,” Tom muttered and ducking his head, he climbed into the Caddy’s spacious interior.

The man responded with a polite nod, and once his passenger was inside, he carefully closed the door.

The dark leather upholstery squeaked slightly as Tom settled back into his seat. It was his first time in a limousine, and with a look of childish wonder, he soaked up the opulent atmosphere. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a single red rose tucked into a silver ice bucket. Curious, he plucked the delicate flower from its hiding place. Attached to the stem was a small pink envelope, and with trembling fingers, he opened the flap. Inside were two Dodgers’ tickets, along with a scented card, which read:

**I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say:**  
**“I love you.”**  


Despite the disastrous consequences of professing his feelings a week before, to Booker’s credit, he hadn't shied away from using the ‘L’ word, and a look of wonderment passed over Tom’s face. The pageantry of Shakespeare’s prose evoked a long-forgotten memory inside him, and staring at the rose, he lightly fingered the delicate red petals. He’d studied many of _The Bard’s_ plays in high school, and although hard going, he’d found them profound and deeply moving. Like Chaucer before him and later, the great Charles Dickens, Shakespeare not only engaged his mind, he captivated his heart along with the more primitive parts of his psyche. It was his secret shame. He was a sucker for romantic poetry, and it appeared Booker had picked the one thing guaranteed to woo the pants off him. Was it blind luck, coincidence or divine intervention? Tom honestly did not know nor did he care. There was a fine line between sincerity and taking the piss, but the dark-haired officer’s gambit had paid off. In Tom’s mind, there was no malice in the scripted prose, just a heartfelt declaration of the truth. Booker loved him, _really_ loved him, and by taking his suggestion seriously, it showed how much the officer respected him as a man and as a partner. It was a touching display of real devotion, and the simple yet effective gesture colored Tom’s thoughts with the brightest of hues. The prospect of a happy ever after lit up his mind like a rainbow peeking through the dark, swirling depths of a storm cloud, and with it came a glimmer of hope for the future. His and Booker’s relationship might have started out as a drunken romp, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t turn into one of the greatest love stories ever told. It was a revelation of sorts, and for Tom, life suddenly seemed less complicated. Hopefully, his cautious nature would prove a blessing, but if not, he knew in his heart he’d done everything in his power to make the relationship work.

Settling back in his seat, Tom stared out the at the urban landscape moving past his window. He was surprised to see they were only a block away from the chapel, and a shiver of nervous anticipation sent a tingle down his spine. While he wasn’t certain he’d see Booker, he was keen to reinsert himself back into his vocation. The Jump Street officers were his family, and as an added bonus, he got to work with them day in, day out, keeping the schools and colleges of L.A. free from crime. It was a win-win situation and spending a week forcibly separated from the life he adored had proven harder than he would have imagined. But all that was in the past. He was back, albeit in a limited capacity, and no matter what mind-numbing chore Fuller saddled him with, he would do it with enthusiasm and without complaint.

So caught up in his own musings, Tom didn’t notice the car had stopped until the chauffeur opened the door, and it was then a heart-stopping panic sucked the air from his lungs. How would he explain his regal mode of transport to his coworkers without raising suspicion about his private life? Suddenly, Booker’s sweet gesture seemed fraught with complications, darkening the mood of the auspicious occasion beneath a black cloud of rising anxiety. It was not the start he’d anticipated when he'd woken up that morning, but he only had himself to blame. If he’d had his wits about him, he could have asked the driver to drop him off down the street, rather than outside the chapel in full view of his fellow officers. But it wasn’t a complete disaster. Maybe Lady Luck would smile down at him, and no one would see him disembark, giving the chauffeur time to drive away before anyone noticed his arrival. And while he didn’t like his odds, it was all he had, and ignoring the steadily increasing pain in his side, he scrambled from the limousine. But as it turned out, Lady Luck wasn’t smiling down on him that day, she was sitting back, smoking a cigarette and laughing her ass off.

“Ooo! Someone’s got a girlfriend!”

Penhall’s teasing sing-song voice sent Tom’s heart into a panic, the arrhythmic beat fluttering heavily in this chest. Realizing he still had the single stem rose clutched in his hand, he attempted to hide it behind his back. But it was too late. The jig was up. Penhall had witnessed it all, and he had no choice but to face the interrogation.

“So, who is she?” Penhall asked, his eyebrows waggling for effect. “It’s that cute redhead at the courthouse, isn’t it? What’s her name? Sheryl? Sherilyn? Sherry? And organizing a limo and flowers for your first day back at work? Wow, man! Now that’s what I call love.”

Tom lowered his eyes to the ground. “It’s nobody,” he mumbled. “Just drop it, okay?”

“So, it’s a secret admirer then?” Penhall quizzed. “How intriguing.”

The chauffeur stepped forward. “What time shall I pick you up, sir?” 

Penhall’s mouth dropped open, and he temporarily forgot all about Tom’s mystery lover. “You’re getting a limo ride home?” he exclaimed, a childish excitement shining from his eyes. “Can you drop me off at my place on the way through?”

Caught off guard, Tom’s eyes flitted between his friend, the chauffeur, and back again. “Uh, I guess,” he muttered before turning to address the driver. “Five o’clock, if that’s okay.”

“Very good, sir,” the chauffeur replied.

“Cool!” Doug exclaimed, his Cheshire cat grin communicating his elation. 

Overwhelmed by the turn of events, Tom rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. “Yeah, cool,” he muttered against his fingers, but in reality, his heart wasn’t in it. While having Doug in the vehicle wouldn’t ruin the experience per se, he wanted to savor the thrill of Booker’s loving gesture alone and without interruption. But his best friend’s excitement was infectious, and as the limousine pulled away, a small smile tilted his lips. Maybe having Doug in the car would heighten the experience rather than dampen it. After all, there was nothing more exhilarating than having a juicy secret, and dating Booker was, without a doubt, the juiciest of them all. And the thought of sitting in a limousine paid for by his lover, with a best friend who didn’t have a clue what was going on awakened Tom’s dark side. His and Booker’s clandestine affair added an element of excitement that, if he played his cards right, could take their relationship to a higher level. He imagined fantasizing about his lover while Doug sat next to him, innocently chatting away while risque visions floated around in his head. The concept amused him, and he stifled a snort. Things were once again, looking up.

With a wistful sigh, Penhall placed a companionable hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, buddy.”

Tom turned and faced his friend, his smile widening. “Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

Doug returned a grin. “So, let’s go find you something to do.”

“Roger that,” Tom laughed, and with his best friend by his side, he walked into the chapel.

**

Kept occupied by the mountain of incident reports Fuller had asked him to file, Tom barely registered the time, and it was only when his stomach growled that he realized it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. Signaling to Penhall that he was taking a break, he walked outside and headed toward his favorite diner. All around him, the sounds of the city rose like a constant tide, the familiarity of the urban noise strangely comforting. Even the persistent throb in his side didn’t dampen his jubilant mood. Life was good, _really_ good, and the cherry on the cake was the knowledge he would share all his experiences with the man who was slowly but surely, stealing his heart.

Stopping outside Nic’s Diner, Tom pushed open the door. Overhead, a bell tinkled, announcing his arrival, the gentle chime transforming into a loud jangle as the door slammed closed behind him. Only a few patrons inhabited the small eating area, the ghostly aroma of strong coffee and grilled cheese hinting at what was on order. It wasn’t the most elegant of eateries, but the food was top notch and the staff friendly and attentive, making it a favorite amongst the Jump Street officers. 

“Hey, Tommy!” the diner’s owner greeted from behind the counter. “How’s them ribs healing?”

The comment triggered a conscious awareness in Tom, and the dull ache radiating through his side intensified. Placing a hand on his ribs, he offered the cheerful Italian a smile. “I’ll live.”

“The usual?” Nic asked, referring to Tom’s standard order of a hot dog and cola. “Or are you gonna surprise us all and order something different today.”

“You know me, Nic,” Tom replied with a laugh. “I hate change, so you’d better make it the usual,” and taking out his wallet, he handed over a five-dollar bill.

“Keep your money,” Nic grinned. “Someone’s started a tab for you. As of now, you’re a kept man.”

Tom’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Someone? Someone who?”

With a knowing smile, Nic tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Well, that’d be telling, and as I’m sworn to secrecy _and_ a man of my word, I can’t tell you. So, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring your order over.”

The diner’s surroundings took on a strange dreamlike quality, and Tom all but floated over to a table and sat down. Although he had no proof Booker was behind the grand gesture, in his heart, he knew it was another private communication from the dark-haired officer. Doug was sweet and generous, but secretly paying for a meal wasn’t his style. And while Fuller, Judy, and Harry were all pleased to see him back at work, he doubted any of them would even think of implementing such a scheme. All fingers pointed to Booker, and the knowledge brought a goofy smile to Tom’s lips. His lover was going out of his way to make him feel cherished, and it was an eye-opening experience. In an age of defined gender roles, it was a subtle glimpse into the life of a courted woman, and the comparison had his face flaming red. But not because he felt embarrassed by the parallel. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisaged Booker taking his proposal so seriously, and the ingenuity of the officer’s imaginative expressions of love genuinely touched him. In all honesty, he hadn't had very high expectations, his mind settling on a few nice dinners followed by a movie or drinks. But the reality was far more inventive, to the point where he couldn’t wait to see what other surprises his lover had in store for him. And with the intrigue came an intense, physical longing. Maybe Booker was right, maybe he would end up wooing the pants off him.

Consumed by his thoughts, Tom didn’t see Nic approached until he was standing right next to him. “One hot dog, heavy on the mustard and a bottle of coke to wash it all down,” the diner owner quipped as he placed the items on the table, along with a folded paper napkin. “Buon appetito!”

“Thanks, Nicco,” Tom answered with a smile. He waited for the diner owner to leave before taking a swig of cola, the carbonated bubbles momentarily dancing over his tongue before exploding with a burst of flavor. His stomach growled, urging him to hurry up, and opening up the napkin, he started to place it over his lap when he noticed something written on the paper. Looking closer, his hands began to tremble, the familiar scrawl causing his heart to dip.

**Doubt thou the stars are fire;**  
**Doubt that the sun doth move;**  
**Doubt truth to be a liar;**  
**But never doubt I love.**  


The emotive last line sent a rush of blood to Tom’s groin, the delightful sensation making him squirm. Booker had gifted him more Shakespeare, this time part of a love poem from _‘Hamlet’._ It was a declaration of the heart, and the significance of the final line resonated deep inside his soul. His lover wanted him to know what they had wasn’t a fling. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t an affair, it was a deep emotional connection of two souls, an intense and intelligent interaction that bound them together in a way that far surpassed any physical attraction. It was not a cliché, it was love in its rawest form, and by stating it, he proved yet again, he wasn’t afraid to express his feelings.

“Is everything okay? You haven’t touched your food.”

Tom’s head snapped up, and he quickly shoved the napkin out of sight. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

An amused smile played over Nic’s lips. “You look a little flustered, Tommaso. Are you _sure_ everything’s okay?”

It was obvious the impudent Italian knew _exactly_ what was going on, and despite Tom’s initial embarrassment, to his surprise, he realized he didn’t care. Boldly spreading the napkin over his lap with the writing facing upward, he gifted his friend a large grin. “You know what, Nicco? Things are pretty damn good.”

But little did he know, life was about to get a whole lot better.

 

_To be continued..._


	2. So, What If I Told You…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Consumed by his thoughts, Tom didn’t see Nic approached until he was standing right next to him. “One hot dog, heavy on the mustard and a bottle of coke to wash it all down,” the diner owner quipped as he placed the items on the table, along with a folded paper napkin. “Buon appetito!”_
> 
> _“Thanks, Nicco,” Tom answered with a smile. He waited for the diner owner to leave before taking a swig of cola, the carbonated bubbles momentarily dancing over his tongue before exploding with a burst of flavor. His stomach growled, urging him to hurry up, and opening up the napkin, he started to put it on his lap when he noticed something written on the paper. Looking closer, his hands began to tremble, the familiar scrawl causing his heart to dip._
> 
> _**Doubt thou the stars are fire;**   
>  **Doubt that the sun doth move;**   
>  **Doubt truth to be a liar;**   
>  **But never doubt I love.** _
> 
> _The emotive last line sent a rush of blood to Tom’s groin, the delightful sensation making him squirm. Booker had gifted him more Shakespeare, this time part of a love poem from ‘Hamlet’. It was a declaration of the heart, and the significance of the final line resonated deep inside his soul. His lover wanted him to know what they had wasn’t a fling. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t an affair, it was a deep emotional connection of two souls, an intense and intelligent interaction that bound them together in a way that far surpassed any physical attraction. It was not a cliché, it was love in its rawest form, and by stating it, he proved yet again, he wasn’t afraid to express his feelings._
> 
> _“Is everything okay? You haven’t touched your food.”_
> 
> _Tom’s head snapped up, and he quickly shoved the napkin out of sight. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”_
> 
> _An amused smile played over Nic’s lips. “You look a little flustered, Tommaso. Are you sure everything’s okay?”_
> 
> _It was obvious the impudent Italian knew exactly what was going on, and despite Tom’s initial embarrassment, to his surprise, he realized he didn’t care. Boldly spreading the napkin over his lap with the writing facing upward, he gifted his friend a large grin. “You know what, Nicco? Things are pretty damn good.”_
> 
> _But little did he know, life was about to get a whole lot better._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/26736714098/in/album-72157683689305643/)

The drive home in the limousine with Doug didn’t disappoint. Although only a short journey, it proved to be as privately entertaining as Tom had originally hoped. Penhall quizzed him about his mystery lover, and keeping a straight face, the young officer had dropped subtle and somewhat cryptic hints. Dark-hair, penetrating yet soulful eyes, a seductive smile, a great sense of humor, mischievous, playful, a devilish laugh… on and on he went, all the while exacting great pleasure from his best friend’s frustration as he continued to guess incorrectly. It was an amusing and entertaining way to end a tiring yet satisfying first day back at work, and he almost wished the ride had lasted longer. Almost, but not quite. He couldn’t wait to get home and see if any other surprises were awaiting him. Romance was definitely in the air, and with the long-stemmed rose clutched in his hand, he bade farewell to Simon the chauffeur and caught the elevator up to the second floor.

When the doors opened, Tom stepped out and slowly walked toward his apartment. As he drew nearer, he could see something taped to his door, and an almost childlike excitement had him quickening his pace. Pain radiated in his side, the increased exertion aggravating his damaged ribs. But he ignored the intensifying discomfort, the thrill of receiving yet another romantic message far outweighing his suffering. Love had him acting like a giddy teenager, and he wore his emotion on his face like a badge of honor. For the first time in a long time, he was happy to let his guard down and openly express his feelings. He was smitten, and he didn’t care who knew it. But there was a catch. His euphoria only extended to a physical display of a man in love, not the emotional complications attached to it. He still wasn’t ready to come out of the closet and publicly declare his commitment to Booker. But that was a problem for another day. The present was all that mattered, and all he wanted was to sit back and enjoy the high before having to face the daunting task of coming out to his friends and family.

Approaching the door, he saw his name scrawled on the front of a folded piece of paper. A red hand-drawn heart in the corner had his pulse quickening, and a delightful tingle rippled over his flesh. Reaching out a shaky hand, he plucked the note from the door. The urge to rip it open almost got the better of him, but he curbed his enthusiasm long enough to enter his apartment. Once inside, he flicked the light switch and with trembling fingers, he opened the daintily folded note. Booker’s familiar scrawl filled the page, and leaning back against the door, Tom began to read.

**My shy, beautiful Tommy,**  
**If love burns eternal,**  
**Then I am your flame,**  
**An immortal candle,**  
**Flickering, captivated,**  
**A beacon of light,**  
**For you to come home to.**  
**I think of you always,**  
**You’re my first thought in the morning,**  
**My last as I drift off to sleep.**  
**You are my sun, my moon,**  
**My night, my day.**  
**I adore every inch of you.**  
**The sweet curve of your lips,**  
**The scent of your hair,**  
**Your flawless skin,**  
**The depthless pools,**  
**Of your expressive brown eyes.**  
**These are my seasons,**  
**My land and sea,**  
**My stars in the sky,**  
**My everything.**  
**You are my world,**  
**From east to west,**  
**North to south.**  
**My Autumn song,**  
**My final leaf,**  
**When all the rest have fallen.**  
**I worship every breath,**  
**Every spoken word,**  
**Every contented sigh,**  
**Uttered from your succulent mouth.**  
**I hear you,**  
**See you,**  
**Feel you beneath me,**  
**Your trembling flesh,**  
**Shuddering beneath my touch.**  
**You are my belief,**  
**You are my blood.**  
**In each fluttering beat,**  
**Of my love-sick heart,**  
**I feel your presence,**  
**Your laughter,**  
**Your fears.**  
**Through the darkest of days,**  
**And the lightest of nights.**  
**You are my reason for living,**  
**My reason for being.**  
**You are my forever,**  
**My now,**  
**My then,**  
**My always.**  


**All my love, Dennis x**  


**P.S. I’ll call you tonight.**  


Dumbstruck, Tom stared at the piece of paper, his disbelief evident by his slack-jawed expression. The poem in his hand wasn’t written by Shakespeare, it wasn’t written by Keats, and it certainly wasn’t written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It was a raw, straight from the heart, Dennis Booker original. Booker had written him a poem. Booker. Had. Written. Him. A. Poem.

On the surface, the open-hearted sentiment seemed strange, incongruous even. Booker was a smart-mouthed, leather-clad, arrogant, know-it-all. He wasn’t a lyricist. He rode motorcycles, drank beer, and watched sport, he didn’t compose poetry. Except he did… and he had… and it was the most stirring, and enchanting piece of literary work Tom had ever read. The words bounced inside his head to the beat of his heart, the rhythmic ballad lighting a fire inside his soul. Each letter stood bold, proud, waiting for the next to roll off the tongue, waiting to form a cohesive whole… a word… a sentence... and finally, an emotion-filled declaration of love. It was an emblazoned and symbolic representation of the dark-haired officer’s devotion, and it was his, _all_ his. Never had anyone taken the time to gift him something so personal, so _intimate,_ and his heart sang with joy. Love Booker-style was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Every minute he spent with the enigmatic officer, every hand-delivered message, every thoughtful gesture told him he’d finally found his twin flame. He was, in the most simplistic of terms, falling in love.

The shrill peal of the phone pierced through the still air, and without thought for his well-being, Tom raced across the room and snatched up the handset. “Hanson!”

Booker’s concerned voice floated through the receiver. “Hey, Tommy, are you okay? You sound like you’re in pain.”

Gingerly lowering himself into a chair, Tom clutched his side with his free hand. “I’m all right,” he gasped. “I forgot I was injured and I ran to answer the phone.”

“Hanson, I’m touched,” Booker murmured, his voice oozing with seductive charm. “Do you miss me _that_ much?”

“Where are you?” Tom inquired in an excited rush of words. “Are you coming over?”

“Do you want me to?”

The breathless question hung suspended between them... hopeful… expectant… a ticking time bomb of suspense-filled anticipation. A hot flush of arousal colored Tom’s cheeks, and ducking his head, a coy smile tilted his lips. “Well, yeah. I kinda want to thank you in person.”

“For?” Booker teased in a soft, lilting voice.

“Everything,” Tom breathed into the mouthpiece. “But especially for my poem.”

A low, husky laugh sounded down the phone line. “You read it, huh? I know I’m no Wordsworth, but—”

“It’s beautiful,” Tom whispered. 

“Really?”

There was a note of vulnerability in Booker’s voice, a need for reassurance, and his openness only made Tom love him more. Placing the poem on his knee, he traced a fingertip over the words. “No one’s ever written me a poem before,” he confessed in a soft voice. “I feel a little overwhelmed.”

Always the joker, Booker chuckled. “Yeah? Well, I’d never _written_ a poem before, so I guess it’s a first for both of us.”

Tom smiled into the receiver. “So, you didn’t answer my question. Are you coming over?”

An audible sigh sounded in Tom’s ear. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sorry, baby,” Booker lamented with another sigh. “Fuller’s got me working around the clock on this case. But I’m free on the weekend.”

They weren't the words Tom wanted to hear, but he understood the pitfalls of the job all too well. His father was often absent, especially during his formative years. Not that it had impacted on their relationship. They’d been as close as any father and son could be, and Tom took reassurance from the knowledge he didn't need to see Booker every day to feel his presence in his heart. “Okay,” he relinquished with a sigh. “How ‘bout Saturday? Or Sunday for the Dodgers’ game?”

“Saturday's good,” Booker replied. “And I promise, I _will_ make it up to you.”

“You’d better,” Tom laughed. “You’ve set the benchmark, I’ve got very high expectations now.”

“All will be revealed,” came the cryptic reply. 

In the background, the sound of voices grew steadily louder. “Hey, baby, I’ve gotta go,” Booker whispered. “I’ll call you when I can,” and before Tom could reply, the line went dead.

Crestfallen, Tom hung up the phone. But his disappointment didn't last long. He had a date with Booker, and that was all that mattered.

**

Over the following days, Booker continued to lavish Tom with gifts. Chocolates and flowers magically appeared on the young officer’s desk, along with a bottle of Jack’s and several CDs, including Tom Petty’s _‘Full Moon Fever’_ and The Pogues _‘Peace and Love’._ It amazed him the dark-haired officer managed to find the time to call into the chapel when he was working such long hours, but however he was doing it, he never missed a day. For Tom, every morning felt like his birthday, the overt display of affection soon piquing the interest of his fellow officers. Upon his arrival, they gathered around his desk like vultures, their hungry eyes coveting the array of goodies. And while the young officer hated the attention, he did enjoy the pampering, and he eagerly counted down each day until he could thank his lover in person.

**

Tom glanced at the clock, an anxious frown creasing his brow. Booker was thirty minutes late, and he hoped that didn’t mean he would cancel their date. He was in the mood for a night out, especially because for the first time since his accident, he was almost pain-free. His world was returning to normal, and once a departmental doctor cleared him for active duty, he would return to the job he loved.

On edge and unable to contain his impatience, the young officer started to pace the room. Another seven minutes passed before a knock at the door liberated him from his mental torture. But he played it cool, and closing his eyes, he slowly counted to ten. When a second knock echoed through the apartment, he opened his eyes and sauntered over to the door. Nerves had his hands shaking, and he silently admonished himself. He was acting like a love-struck teenager, and he took another few seconds to compose himself before opening the door. 

“Hey,” Booker greeted, his smile valiantly trying to mask the tiredness projecting from his eyes. “Sorry I’m late. Are you ready to go?”

Tom studied Booker’s drawn face, and stepping forward, he wrapped his arms around his waist and placed a tender kiss on his lips. “You look beat,” he murmured against the plump flesh. “Are you sure you still wanna go out?”

The sensual touch of Tom’s lips against his own sent a shudder of arousal through Booker’s body. He wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of his lover’s body with his mouth, but his planned surprise was too delightful to put off for another day. And so, ignoring his growing erection, he returned Tom’s tender kiss before stepping back. Taking his lover’s hand in his, he gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure. Now, grab a jacket, I’ve got something special lined up for you.”

“Is it better than my poem?” Tom asked, his eyes shining brightly. “‘Cause I’ve gotta say, Booker, you really outdid yourself with that.”

Booker shoved his hands in his pockets, a bashful smile curling the corners of his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, Hanson. That was a one time only, exclusive, Booker original. My writing days are over.”

A teasing pout formed on Tom’s lips. “Spoilsport. I was kinda hoping for an anthology, you know, something like, _‘How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways’_ or maybe, _‘Tom Hanson Rocks My World - a Collection of Poems by Dennis Booker’._ Whaddya think?”

Amused by the comment, Booker snorted. “Dream on, lover, it’s never gonna happen.”

Secretly thrilled with the use of the term _lover,_ Tom hid his delight by going in search of a jacket. When he returned, he entwined his fingers in Booker’s and led him out the door. “Let’s go, I wanna see my surprise.”

A tingle of excitement ran down the length of Booker’s spine. He was about to gift his lover something that was sure to leave him speechless, and he couldn’t wait to see the elation light up his beautiful face.

**

Pulling into the parking lot of _‘Joe’s Garage’,_ Booker switched off the Caddy’s engine. “We’re here.”

Tom peered out of the windshield at the unlit building. “You’re taking me on a date to an auto shop?” he laughed. “How romantic.”

Undoing his seatbelt, Booker opened the car door. “Not just to any auto shop, Hanson. To a self-serve, _do-it-yourself_ auto shop. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Puzzled by the strange turn of events, Tom climbed out of the car and followed his date. The dark-haired officer produced a key, and with a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows, he unlocked the door and walked inside. Moments later, light flooded the inside of the building, revealing a large workshop filled with cars, all in varying stages of disrepair.

Tom looked around him, his expression a mask of confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Booker replied with a cheeky grin. “Now, shut your eyes, I’ve something to show you.”

Somewhat uncomfortable at the prospect of being at Booker’s mercy, Tom hesitated for a moment before closing his eyes. When a strong arm wrapped around his waist, he automatically jerked away, the involuntary movement bringing forth a nervous laugh. “Sorry,” he apologized. 

Booker’s warm breath tickled his ear. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m just gonna lead you across the room. Keep your eyes closed, okay? I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Although not completely convinced Booker was on the up and up, Tom did as he was asked. He took several faltering steps, his hands held out in front of him before deciding to place his trust in his lover and enjoy the ride. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as they slowly crossed the room, his excitement mounting with each step. He had no idea what his lover was about to reveal, but he knew it would be something worth waiting for.

After about twenty steps, Booker stopped, and releasing Tom’s waist, he took a step back. “Surprise.”

Tom opened his eyes and stared at the twisted wreckage in front of him. It took a moment for his brain to register what it was he was seeing, but when it did, his eyes lit up with delight. “My Mustang!” he exclaimed in an excited voice. “But it was totaled in the crash. How did you—”

“I purchased the wreck from the insurance company,” Booker explained. “I thought maybe we could fix it up together. You know, like a project.”

“You bought back my Mustang?”

The wonderment in Tom’s voice brought a lump to Booker’s throat, and swallowing it down, he shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yeah,” he replied in a soft voice.

“But why?”

It was an easy question for Booker to answer, and taking Tom’s hand in his, he gave a light squeeze. “Because I know how much it means to you.”

A bolt of pure love ripped through Tom’s heart, and releasing Booker’s fingers, he placed his hands on either side of his face. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you from me, and thank you from my dad,” and leaning forward, he pressed his lips against the warm, plump flesh of the dark-haired officer’s mouth.

Lost in the reverence of the kiss, the room fell away, the only thought on Booker’s mind, the sweet taste of Tom’s saliva mingling with his own. It was a tender, loving moment, and as his tongue lightly probed the depths of his lover’s mouth, it was then he knew, everything would be all right.


End file.
